A Shaming Trilogy, Part 2: Caught In The Act

Saturday, Farmer H took me to the casino to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary. We both lost money, but it was expendable income which we quickly disposed of, so we're not paupers. Yet.

Farmer H's original idea was to have lunch at the burger place inside the casino. He called me around 11:00, as he was closing up his Storage Unit Store due to bad weather and no business. Of course I had JUST put three pans of Chex Mix into the oven. It takes two hours to cook, with stirring mandatory every 15 minutes. So by the time I got ready, and we swove up there, we hit the casino around 2:30.

Farmer H fed himself a lunch of two hot dogs, leftover Chex Mix Bugles, and two cookies from the AUCTION dough. So he said we'd just make the burgers our supper. At 4:00. That was fine with me, since I'd had nothing but some peanut butter crackers on the way there. I even had two left for a future Jack and Juno treat, because I don't like the kind on the bright orange crackers. I prefer the round plain crackers.

Anyhoo...we lost some money, ate a pretty good lunch, and were back home at 6:00. Too late for my 44 oz Diet Coke! I was okay with that. I do keep 20 oz bottles of it in the basement mini fridge for emergencies like this. I put away the Chex Mix, now completely cooled, and treated myself for a bowl to take down to my lair to complement my Diet Coke. I also made up a container for Farmer H.

In the midst of these preparations, I made a visit to my now-unstained master bathroom facilities. This trip requires passing behind the La-Z-Boyed Farmer H. When I came out, I saw that he'd made a trip to the kitchen. He was eating TWO pieces of cheesecake (chocolate, and strawberry-topped), with an individual cup of strawberry and chocolate swirled ice cream on the side!

"Are you kidding me? TWO pieces of cheesecake?"

"I didn't have one last night, so now I'm having two. They were stuck together. So I just had them both."

"Because it's SO hard to pull two pieces of pre-cut different cheesecake slices apart. You say that because you got caught! For all I know, you're having two every night. And not even any protein with them! Are you falling into a coma yet?"

"Oh! I need to go take my medicine. I'll take TWO, ha, ha!"

"If you insist on eating sugar, you HAVE to have some protein with it, at least. Even those pork rinds there will help."

"Huh. 8 grams of protein per serving. 0 carbohydrates."

"SEE? You have to be smarter about this. When you don't answer your phone over in the BARn, I'm pretty sure it's because you're laying on the floor in a coma, from eating auction cherry pies..."

"No, HM. I'm not eating cherry pies. I told you, they was my buddy's wife's. We all buy things, and set them in a pile."

Farmer H opened up the Chex Mix. Obviously not sated by his just-eaten snack and additional pork rinds.

"THAT'S all carbs! Except for the nuts."

"I'm not going to eat it ALL!"

We'll see. Since I would be downstairs in my lair, and he would not be under observation.

A Shaming Trilogy, Part 1: Every Mansion Has Its Pooper

Farmer H and I had a little talk when he came home early from his Storage Unit Store on Saturday. Oh, he wasn't rushing home to see me. The weather was cold and rainy. No business.

"You need to clean your dried poop off the back of the toilet seat again. I'm not your nanny. Not your home health aide. If you can't take care of your toileting needs, we'll hire one."

The reaction was much along the same vein as last week, when Farmer H said about all the stuff he tracks in on his boots daily, "ONE OF US needs to run the vacuum."

"Maybe YOU pooped on the toilet."

"No. That would be downstairs. IN, not ON. Besides, I heard you at 6:00 a.m. pooping."

"No. I just farted."

"When you get up from your lunch, I expect you to clean your dried poop off the back of the toilet seat."

"Whatever, HM."

"Surely you don't think it's wrong of me to object to sitting on your dried poop. Or to wiping off your dried poop."

He went into the master bathroom. Stayed a while. Came back out. Was ALMOST apologetic.

"Huh. I guess that happened right before I got in the shower."

"Imagine if YOU sat in MY poop several times a week. And then cleaned it off. And I denied it when you confronted me about my habits."

"I don't know how I didn't see that."

"Yeah. That's what I always ask myself. How could you NOT SEE that?"

Let the record show that we went to a casino on Saturday. Once we were back home, I was standing at the end table, putting my gambling purse back in order, when I burped.

"EXCUSE YOU!" said Farmer H.

"Sorry. I am NOT going to listen to etiquette instructions from a toilet-seat pooper."

Hillbilly Mom, Possible Crime Chaser

You know my imagination runs wild, right? All kinds of wicked scenarios pop into my head when I observe something that seems a little bit off. You'd think I'd harness that untamed imagination, and train it to pull my fingers across New Delly's keyboard to write fiction. Alas. I cannot. I am not an imagination whisperer.

Here's the next best thing, though. I'll share my fears with you!

Friday, I left home to do the weekly errands of letter-mailing (with stamp-buying thrown in), T-Hoe gassing, and weekly-allowance-withdrawing. I was perhaps two miles from the Mansion, on the county blacktop road. It's a straight stretch, but riddled with little hills.

Up ahead, I could see a red pickup truck heading towards town. I noticed it, because Farmer H has SilverRedO. I knew it wasn't him, due to his Storage Unit Store schedule. I also saw a white vehicle closer to me, heading toward me. That's what I was really looking for, to be alert, in case a vehicle crests a little hill in the middle of the road. I'm always in my lane, but ready to jam on the brakes or veer off.

When I crested the last hill between us, I saw that the white vehicle was an actual mail Jeep. It was sitting at a mailbox, putting in mail. Fair enough. No collision today. I continued on my way. When I rounded some curves by the sheep field, and crested the last hill, heading down toward the eventual junction with the lettered highway to town...

I saw that Red Truck, parked on the wrong side of the road, at a stand of 4 mailboxes for some newer homes that have been built in the past several years. The Red Truck was pulling a little trailer. A gray sedan came into view, headed in the opposite direction of Red Truck and T-Hoe. Coming at us. Obeying the rules of the road.

First of all, WHY was that Red Truck going through a mailbox? If he lived there, wouldn't he turn into his own road?

Red Truck veered across the road and continued driving when he saw the gray sedan coming. I figured MAYBE he'd gotten his mail, and wanted to get out of the way.

By the time I got out onto the lettered highway to town, Red Truck was way out ahead of me. He must have been going really fast. I was curious. I sped up to 70 (shh...the speed limit is 55) to see if I could get a glimpse of his license plate. HOS (Farmer H's Oldest Son) has a little trailer like that parked in our field. I hadn't noticed if it was there or not when I left.

Second of all, WHO drives a pickup truck 70 miles an hour with a trailer attached? Was this guy up to no good? Try as I might, I was not gaining on him. He flew by the prison. Aha! Red Truck signaled to turn left on the road by Mick the Mechanic's shop, where I was also turning.

Third of all, WHEN Red Truck saw my turn signal in his mirror, he turned his off! And continued into town at that high rate of speed, right past the 45 mph speed limit sign.

I did what any respectable law-abiding (except for the momentary moving violation) Hillbilly Mom would do, and called Farmer H to tell him my observations.

"Don't you think that's weird? Do you think maybe Red Truck saw the mail Jeep go by him, and decided to look into people's mailboxes before they could get their mail? It just seems odd that he was coming from out by our area, and stopped at those mailboxes near the road to town. Plus taking off when he saw a car coming. Not to mention the speeding and deciding not to turn when he saw that I, his main witness, was turning!"

Farmer H agreed that something was not right with this scenario. I'll keep my eyes and ears out for any reports of trailer thievery or mail stealing. Red Ford pickup. Four door. Short bed.

No Rest For The Wicked Weary

Sweet Gummi Mary! It is 1:54 a.m. as I sit in my LIGHTED basement lair and type this. Oh, don't think that Farmer H fixed my fluorescent lights. One of the four is working, though. Completely, burning both long bulbs, right over New Delly's keyboard.

I now understand what my mom meant, when she used to tell me,
"Oh, there's so much to do!"

Of course I would chide her. "WHAT, Mom? WHAT is there to do? You don't have to go anywhere or do ANYTHING if you don't want to." Heh, heh. So smug was I, working and keeping two boys alive and catering to Farmer H's every need.

Now that I don't really have anything to do all day, I am SO BUSY! Sorry. I don't mean to scare anybody contemplating retirement. You know who you are, Madam...

Thursday is the only real crunch time I have. It's the day I write the boys' letters. But tonight (last night) I had other things to do. Some of which aren't getting done. So there. Sue me. Lock me up and throw away the key. I wouldn't even be writing this except that I wanted to vent.

I got a late start to town because I was looking at the tax bills. I've had them a week or so, but need to get them in the mail when I'm at the post office tomorrow (today), since one of them will be overweight.

In town, I got some Chex Mix makings, since we're going to visit The Pony, and later my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. I didn't get home until around 2:45. Then had to make my own lunch. I KNOW! Life is hard!

Seems like no sooner did I eat lunch than it was time to go make Farmer H's supper. I'd actually made it before going to town, and it was in FRIG II in the pan, ready to warm up. He wanted Li'l Smokies and beans. Like beanie weenies. Of course he came in just before I started down with my lunch, delaying me even more, and said he was going to take apart the ice maker. NO! I wasn't in a mood to deal with no ice on my BUSY day!

Anyhoo...I told Farmer H that I'd be up around 6:00 to warm his supper, but if he wanted it sooner, he could do it himself by putting the pan on the stove and turning on the burner. Can you believe he said no, that he'd wait for me to do it? Yeah. I was pretty sure you could. Oh, and he wanted me to dice an onion for him to put in it.

So...once I made my own supper of Devil's Playground Orange Chicken, I still had to type up two letters and two blog posts and write out two checks for the eight tax bills, and address three envelopes, and get into the safe to take out the money I've been putting away for the tax bills. I was supposed to call for room reservations for our Pony visit, but I'll do that tomorrow (today) after my town trip.

I got a lot more done when I was working, you know. Not that I have any plans to return.

Farmer H Plans, Juno Suffers

I have noticed over the last week that my Sweet, Sweet Juno is ravenous when I greet her on my way to the garage. She's overly excited about getting a handful of cat kibble. Such a good girl, my Juno. Her only transgressions are poking her nose on the lip area of my water cup as I walk down the steps, and that time she jammed her rubbery nose into my mouth.

Juno is looking shiny and sleek these days. Farmer H used to accuse her of being his egg-stealer when we had chickens, but Juno is just naturally shiny when her matted fur falls off at the end of the summer. However, she's been looking THIN! I can see her backbone. Rather than being sturdy, she looks frail for a dog her size.

Oh, she still frolics with Jack if Copper Jack is tied up. Like he was all weekend, due to deer season, and his resemblance to a deer. Or perhaps his penchant for following his human dad down into the woods. Anyhoo...Juno seems to feel fine. She just looks slim to me.

In fact, I've taken to giving her cat kibble every time I walk by her on the side porch, coming and going. Jack is looking more rotund than normal. So I have to watch it with his portions. Juno even tries to get his before he's done.

Now I think I've solved THIS mystery. I had some leftover spaghetti saved for their treat on Wednesday. I'd separated it into two portions, intending to carry the plate around to their food pans, rather than dump spaghetti on Farmer H's stained porch boards.

Both dogs were excited, and followed me gleefully. Copper Jack was back, but he stayed behind Juno's house like a proper uninvited guest. When I reached the food pans, I saw that it was now a food PAN. Only one! Sitting beside the metal self-feeder that Farmer H had brought over from Marley's pen. [We won't be discussing Marley today!]

I scraped half the spaghetti into the metal food pan, and for lack of another dish, I scraped the rest into the bottom of the self-feeder. It had been in the refrigerator, and was pretty much two solid hunks of cold spaghetti.

Stupid, stupid Jack took a sniff, and followed me back around the porch to the kitchen door, where I was planning to throw Copper Jack a roll. That dumb Jack! Of course Juno pulled her wad of spaghetti out of the bottom of that feeder, onto the porch boards in front of it, and then stepped to the pan to eat Jack's portion. Then back to hers.

For his ignoramusosity, Jack got half a roll.

I'm pretty sure Juno is leery of that self-feeder, and has been going without much dog food.

Rejection: All In A Day's Not-Work For Mrs. HM

It's feast or famine at The Gas Station Chicken Store. And I'm not talking about their delicious fried poultry. No, I'm either treated like royalty, or virtually being told to take a hike!

Tuesday, I stepped up to the end of the aisle to pay for my magical elixir. A lady was paying for two 32 oz sodas (amateur!) and other stuff at the glass lottery counter. An older lady was over by the door at the side counter, waiting to pay for gas with a card. A man was directly in front of me. And another lady came in the door and stood off to the side. I really think she got to a waiting-like place before I stepped all the way up. It's so hard to tell in TGSCS, where people don't seem to understand the concept of a line.

Anyhoo, the Nice Guy Clerk was working. He had the Soda Lady and Gas Granny under control, going from one to the other. The Woman Owner opened up the second register, on the left, and said she could help somebody. The man ahead of me stepped over to her.

He didn't take long, and Woman Owner gave me the head sign that she'd wait on me. I jabbed my scratchers at the Came-In Lady. "I think she was ahead of me." Came-In Lady stepped over, and paid $3 for gas, and got a pack of cigarettes. Priorities, you know.

While Came-In Lady was paying, a Young Dude walked in, past me, over by the chicken case. I knew I was next. It didn't matter who waited on me. I always trade my scratchers equally, or take money back from a bigger win. I have my exact change for the 44 oz Diet Coke ready. I'm a pretty easy transaction.

Came-In Lady was done, on her way out. Soda Lady gathered up her lesser elixirs and started out. Gas Granny also turned to leave. I was next.

Woman Owner looked at me, and I started towards her. All at once, she said, "HE has the machine!" What in the NOT-HEAVEN? Was she REJECTING ME? Pawning me off on Nice Guy Clerk? Sweet Gummi Mary! Woman Owner is usually so fake-nice to me!

"Oh. Okay. I can handle rejection." I said with my left eyebrow raised.

"OH! No, no! I didn't mean it like that!" Said Woman Owner. Heh, heh.

I know she didn't. But she was awfully eager to take Young Dude, who was paying cash for $5 in gas. Nice Guy Clerk treated me right, though.

It just dawned on me that Woman Owner might have a camera out by her air hose, and glimpsed me stealing some air for T-Hoe's tire the day before...

Let's Be Proud Of Farmer H

Just a couple days after the La-Z-Boy Pretzel, our old Farmer is growing up. Learning from his mistakes. Almost able to take care of himself. Let's not go overboard, heaping on the praise, though. There was a misstep along this short journey.

Sunday, I said I'd pick up supper for him at Country Mart's deli. He wanted a BBQ pork steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes. He'd at first mentioned macaroni and cheese, but switched that to the potatoes. As I waited my turn at the deli counter, I noticed that the after-church crowd must have been dismissed early. It was only about 12:15, but already the deli cupboard was showing signs of impending bareness. A scant amount of mac and cheese clung to the corner of the metal bin, and only three stubs of green beans floated in the murky water.

So...Farmer H got his pork steak (it was HUGE), and mashed potatoes with brown gravy, plus mac and cheese. He's probably pretty sure I'm trying to kill him with carb overload.

Anyhoo...knowing how he is, I told Farmer H before I went downstairs,

"You're going to put your food on a plate, right? And not try to eat it out of the foam container? Because a knife will cut right through that."

"Oh. Uh. Sure."

I was not exactly convinced. But when I came upstairs later, his dirty plate was sitting beside the sink. Along with MY SPECIAL BOWL that is part of a set my mom gave me! It's really old! So old that the "set" was just three plates and four bowls. In fact, two of the bowls are chipped and cracked. So I rarely use them. The only thing is when making Farmer H his salsa/cheese dip for Super Bowl snacks. Yet he'd taken it upon himself to use my special keepsake bowl!

"WHY did you use THIS bowl???"

"It's just a bowl, HM. I put my mashed potatoes in it."

"We have two kinds of disposable bowls, and the regular glass bowls with the stripe on the edge, which are in the front of the cabinet! WHY did you dig around to get THIS bowl?"

"I just did."

"Well. Don't do it any more. We have regular bowls. These are old, and special, and I'd rather not take a chance on them getting broken. My mom gave them to me."

"Huh. Okay. I'm always doing something wrong."

He ain't a woofin'!

Anyhoo...on Monday, since he was leaving early for an auction around 4:30, Farmer H said he would get his own supper. And he DID!

All I had to do was originally cook the spaghetti with hamburger sauce, freeze it, thaw it, and tell him how to heat frozen garlic toast in the oven (400 degrees, three minutes each side) and leave a pan lined with foil on top of the stove.

Farmer H did remarkably well. Even used the everyday bowl to microwave his spaghetti. AND none of it was found in the La-Z-Boy.